


Chaperone

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Rumbelle - Freeform, rumbelle anniversary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mr Gold is invited to his ex-girlfriend Cora’s wedding, he knows he can’t show up alone. Thankfully, his son has an idea: a pretty young friend named Belle who is luckily in need of an invitation to the wedding. Everything is going according to plan, until Gold starts wishing the date were real…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The invitation came through on an innocent Tuesday morning.

The mail sounded wrong when it came through the door: it was too heavy, and made too harsh a sound on the hardwood flooring. Gold sighed when he stepped out to collect it. The envelope was thick, some kind of expensive parchment, and when he slid the card from it the words were elaborately penned in gold cursive.

Cora Allison Mills   
and  
Henry Charles King

And their families would like to formally invite you to celebrate their marriage on Saturday, 28th June at 1pm, at the groom’s family home - the King Estate, Storybrooke, Maine  
RSVP

He’d been expecting it of course: Cora was and always had been the type to rub a victory in her opponents’ faces. She had neither the tact nor the grace to let her ex-paramours get away with ignoring her nuptials, and he supposed the idea was to sweeten the somewhat unappealing prospect of her married life with a glance at the seething faces of all the men she’d spurned along the way.

He supposed her ex-fiancé Leopold Blanchard would also be invited with his wife Eva, and their little daughter Snow. Cora was, of course, showing as well by now – word around town was that the father of the groom had insisted upon the wedding to avoid a scandal, which of course fitted Cora’s plan perfectly.

Gold could only imagine how many other men would be in attendance for the same purpose he’d been invited. He wasn’t inclined to be charitable and think she’d have left anyone out.

He knew what was supposed to happen now: he was to either turn down the invitation, thus giving her the satisfaction of knowing he was still too hurt over her leaving him to show his face, or accept and show up alone, leading her to think he wanted her back, or was perhaps simply too pathetic and broken to find a date. She knew he was single – Storybrooke wasn’t a large town, after all – and she had to know he hadn’t so much as flirted with a woman since she’d broken his heart two years ago.

Now she was marrying the man she’d left him for. And he’d done this dance before.

Millie had had other reasons for inviting him, though. That had been about having a babysitter for their son, whom she’d insisted had to be in the wedding party but who’d only been seven at the time and so couldn’t be left unattended. Gold had been invited so he could deliver Bae on time, make sure he didn’t ruin Millie’s dress or get himself hurt, and then take him home after the reception.

Bae hadn’t seen his mother for three years after that night. The last he’d seen of her had been her back, laughing as her new husband demanded Bae ‘scuttle off and harass someone else’. Gold had been so angry he’d broken the hand dryer in the bathroom so as to avoid breaking Killian Jones’ smug face.

Gold knew what it was to be the ex-lover at a wedding. He had no intention of repeating the experience.

The invitation sat in the letter rack for months, waiting to be replied to with a firm ‘no, thank you, I’ll instead send a small basket of fruit and perhaps a little anthrax’. But every time Gold decided to finally pen and mail his reply, something seemed to distract him – a knock at the door, a realisation he was suddenly famished, or even simply the knowledge that he’d more important things to do right at that second than indulge Cora Mills’ vanity.

He was going to get around to declining in the most unpleasant manner possible sooner or later. It was simply a matter of writing the damned thing.

That was, at least, until the phone rang a week before the wedding. “You’re coming to the Mills/King wedding, right dad?”

“Why in God’s name would I do that?” Gold demanded, his shock at the question coming from Bae’s mouth causing him to be far ruder to his son than he’d normally be.

He and Bae had never formally discussed his relationship with Cora: Gold had never said anything, Bae had never asked, and so it was generally accepted that Bae knew nothing until he said otherwise. It was better that, Gold thought, than have to discuss his really rather shameful and torrid affair with a morally reprehensible woman fifteen years his junior.

“Because I know you’re invited,” Bae sighed, “and Emma’s invited cause she’s the Sheriff and she knows the groom’s dad, so we’re all going. Come on, Henry’s not seen his grandpa in forever.”

Gold sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose in his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t, Bae,” he sighed, “ask Henry to come by afterward and bring me some cake.”

“We’re going to Florida right after on vacation, you know that,” Bae sighed, “and you haven’t gone out and been around people in months. The last time was the town potluck where you mortally offended Granny Lucas and then got into a fistfight with the Mother Superior, and that doesn’t count.”

“I don’t particularly want to go to Cora Mills’ wedding,” Gold said. “Especially not alone.”

“You won’t be. Emma and Henry and I will be there.”

“Ah, so I get to play cantankerous grandpa, that’s flattering,” Gold grumbled, and he heard Bae laugh.

“You could be kindly grandpa if you stopped scowling all the time and yelling at kids to get off your lawn.”

“No child would be fool enough to play on my lawn,” Gold replied, ominously.

“Come to the wedding,” Bae commanded, firmly. “I’ll find you a date, if that’s all you’re worried about.”

“My son setting me up on a blind date to Cora Mills’ wedding,” Gold sighed, “Yes, this is exactly where I wanted to be in my twilight years.”

“Or come alone,” Bae suggested, “But you were the one bemoaning your singledom. Come on, Emma knows a girl who needs a good day out, and a chance to talk to the town higher-ups. It’ll be a favour for the family, really, a chance for you to make up for beating up a nun in front of my son.”

“Henry was cheering me on!” Gold objected.

“Henry is ten, he doesn’t know any better,” Bae replied. “Come on, you can just go as new friends, she’ll hold your hand in front of Cora to show off, one dance, and you’re off the hook.”

“This was your plan all along,” Gold accused, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, and he knew his son would hear it even down the phone line. “Emma put you up to this to help her friend, didn’t she?”

“She might have mentioned that Belle needed a favour,” Bae admitted, sheepishly. “But we still really want you there, either way.”

“And what do I receive?” Gold asked, trying to cover his complete inability to deny his son anything with stiff irritability and failing miserably. “Will I be paid for my escort services?”

“Dad!” Bae complained, “Please don’t use that word, I’m still young and impressionable.”

“Yes, says the car thief who’s logged more hours in the county jail than anyone else in town. Impressionable, of course.”

Come on, Belle’s gorgeous, you can make Cora horribly jealous and she can get some funding for the library and you might even make a friend out of it. Just shut up and say yes.”

“Fine, fine!” Gold snapped, worn down as always by Bae’s good-natured persistence. “But on the condition that Henry come and help me in the shop after school for a week after. We’ve new stock in and it’d be nice to show him the family business.”

“Dad, Henry rescues spiders and bluebottle flies and puts them safely outside, he’s not going to take to the business of terrifying people for fun and profit.”

“You underestimate the lad,” Gold said, cheerily, rather buoyed now by the prospect of a whole day with his family and a week after of corrupting his young grandson. The thought of tormenting Cora Mills with a pretty younger model only sweetened the deal. “Fine, fine, I give in. Tell this friend of your wife’s to be here at eleven the day of the wedding, I’ll take it from there.”

“Thank you, papa,” Bae said, sincerely, and that alone kind of made the whole ridiculous business worthwhile. “I’ll pass that along. See you then!”

“See you then,” Gold replied, a little dazedly, and hung up the phone. It was only now sinking in that RSVP’ing at such short notice would require a phone call, rather than a brief, brusque note.

Sighing, and knowing as he did that this was a conversation best having over and done with, Gold immediately picked up the handset again, and flipped with one hand through the book to find Cora’s home phone number.

Cora, not entirely surprisingly, was more than happy to be graciously accommodating. Gold winced with every honeyed, appreciative word that dropped from her lips: he’d once thought her charming, warm but biting, like a clever cat with sharp claws. Now the venom encased in every dripping syllable burned his ears, and he just wanted the awkward conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

“And you’re bringing a plus one?” Cora asked, once the preliminary comments about the hassle of it being on the last minute and her insincere gratitude at his attendance – for she’d taken his silence for a tacit rejection – had been dealt with. The smirk in her voice was evident. “You know that your son and his family are already on the guest list, right?”

The snide implication – that there was no one else in this world who could possibly wish to accompany him than those bound to him by blood – was clear. Gold felt his temper rising.

“You owe Bae a word of thanks, actually,” he replied, with deceptive mildness, “were it not for his presence I assure you I’d be giving it a miss.”

“But you don’t need a plus one if your… ahem… moral support is already Sheriff Swan’s guest, do you? I can put you down for one place, then, and I suppose the salmon, since I’m afraid the lamb is already overbooked.”

“But if I don’t tell you in advance, Cora dear,” he said, carefully, “then how do you propose that my date find a place to sit? Or should I just bring along two lawn chairs and a packed lunch, and find a nice corner to picnic?”

“Your date?” Cora repeated with heavy scepticism, ignoring as she always had his sarcasm. “These are serious people, Gold, they’ll know an escort when they see one.”

“Oh, someone sounds jealous,” Gold said, grinning, “but while I suppose Belle may have some secret life I’m not aware of, I assure you she’s an upstanding member of the community.”

“I’d not put it past you to bring a common prostitute to my wedding just to embarrass me.”

“What, because she’d recognise you from your youth?” he taunted, knowing that the jibe would hit home, and hard. Cora had started with very little, a fact that had bonded them once, but where Gold had built an empire from his ashes, Cora had spent her youth trawling high-class bars and social events looking for rich men to support her. That was, after all, how she’d passed into the King family’s radar: she’d been on his arm at the time, in fact, at the Midas & Nolan law firm’s annual charity gala, in a stunning red dress she couldn’t afford, but Gold definitely could.

She’d never actually charged for her company, but that was splitting hairs.

“I’d not throw stones, dearie,” he continued, at her shocked silence, “all things considered. Tell me, how would the illustrious Mr King Sr. feel if he knew what you were doing… or whom you were doing… just two hours after you’d broken his son’s heart the first time, before he so graciously took you back?”

“You wouldn’t…”

“Ah, so you didn’t tell him about the following three days you spent in my bed, then,” Gold smiled with cruel delight, the prospect of the wedding suddenly seeming so much brighter and more interesting, “that’s interesting. Your fiancé would forgive you, of course, sensitive soul he is, but his father’s another matter, now isn’t he?”

“Your date will have the salmon too, then?” Cora asked, through gritted teeth.

“And the gateau for dessert,” Gold agreed, smugly. “I look forward to seeing you on the big day, dearie.”

He hung up before she could get the last word, and suddenly hoped to God that Belle French wouldn’t turn out to be vegetarian or lactose intolerant. The last thing he needed now was for Cora to ask some personal question, and have their lack of a relationship revealed.

Perhaps it would be better, he thought, to fly under the radar and avoid any further spats. Cora would certainly be too busy at her own wedding anyway to concern herself too much with the affairs – or lack thereof – of her guests, and hopefully Belle French would be able to handle herself if unexpectedly cornered.

So the days leading up to the wedding passed by, and Gold didn’t think much about the event looming on the horizon. His best suit was always pressed and ready to go, he still had the small fruit basket he’d always intended to send as a gift, and Miss French would surely be organising herself through Emma and Bae. He didn’t need to think about it, and so he chose not to, burying himself in the end-of-month income reports, and the beginnings of the new stock intake at the shop.

Three days before the wedding, however, that careful, studied calm was shattered by a knock on his door.

No one ever knocked on Gold’s front door, save the mailman. Any business not done in person at the shop Gold conducted by telephone or, to his increasing dismay, by e-mail, and anyone who’d want to see him at home – namely his sometime-assistant, Mr Dove, and Bae and his family – had their own set of keys. Gold did not encourage anyone else to disturb him, and so no one ever needed to knock and therefore force him to rise to his feet, grab his cane, and limp to the door.

He opened it slowly, with his most foreboding glare. To his irritation, the woman on the porch only smiled back, friendlier than ever, and held up the pie she had in her hands. “Mr Gold?” she asked, as if she didn’t know who he was, and he nodded.

“Who else would be answering my front door?” he snapped back, but again the little thing went undaunted, not even batting an eye at his obvious lack of manners.

“I only wanted to check,” she said, cheerily, “your son told me you didn’t look startlingly alike, and I’d hate to give this cherry pie to the wrong person.”

“My son?” Understanding dawned, and Gold nodded, “You’re Belle French, the poor librarian who needed a favour.”

Miss French nodded, happily – did the girl do anything but smile? – and once again pushed the pie toward him. “I’m really sorry to do this to you,” she said, when once again he didn’t take it from her, “but Emma said you were already invited, and every email or phone call I make to City Hall gets the same blanket ‘we’ll get back to you’ response… and I haven’t gotten a meeting with anyone in a year! Emma’d already used up her plus one’s on Bae and Henry so…”

“So they were scouting around for an unattached soul with an invite and a weakness,” he said, somewhat sourly, unhappily caught off-guard by her bright, unwavering – distressingly genuine – smile, and her unexpected prettiness.

When Bae had told him about the poor town librarian in need of a meeting with the city council, Gold had pictured a plain, mousy, perhaps somewhat dowdy woman who would be frightened of her own shadow and unwilling to say more than two quiet words to him. Apparently he had been entirely mistaken.

The undeterred, sunny-smiled young lady before him was none of what he’d imagined. She was gorgeous, for one thing, all huge, bright blue eyes and tumbling chestnut curls, and she was all but bouncing with enthusiasm in her ridiculous patent leather stilettos. Her dark blue skirt was flatteringly short without being inappropriate, showing off extended miles of leg in her sheer black stockings, and her neat cream blouse showed off a petite and rather lovely figure. It was still her smile that caught him, though, and kept catching him every time he looked at her face: it was sincere, any fool could see that, and full of real warmth, and with her cherry-red lipstick framing that beaming grin she looked like an intoxicating cross between an intelligent seductress and a delighted child.

Gold didn’t like surprises, for all that he supposed that this should be a very happy one indeed, and he didn’t like people to confound his expectations. The more he growled, it seemed, the more agreeable Belle French became.

“They told me you were also looking for a date to the wedding,” Belle defended, “something about a former relationship to another lady there? Bae wasn’t very specific, and I don’t need to know because it’s your business, but I didn’t think the need was one-sided?”

Gold sighed: it was so very much like his son, after all, to tell Miss French just enough to put her at ease, without betraying any information that might make her uncomfortable. Gold had never understood where his son’s easy manner with people had come from, but he knew his own short temper and poor manners didn’t measure up well.

“Look,” Belle’s smile finally faded, and it felt like the sun had gone behind a cloud. Gold was suddenly struck by the absurd thought that he would do anything in his power, at that moment, to bring that warmth back again. “I know I’m an inconvenience. And if you’ve changed your mind… well, I’d understand. I’m a stranger after all: you’ve no reason to want to bring me into a situation that might be hard enough as it is. I’m a big girl, Mr Gold. I can take a hint when I’m not wanted, and I can solve my own problems. This was a shot in the dark anyway.” She bit her lip, and offered the pie one more time, “At least take this as a token of good will?”

He took it automatically, a bit confounded at how thoroughly she’d just had a whole conversation all on her own, and watched as Belle French turned away and started back down the steps to the sidewalk.

“Where’re you going?” he demanded, when his brain had finally caught up with his mouth.

“Home?” she turned back and frowned at him, as if bewildered as to why he hadn’t slammed the door already.

“Did I at any point ask that you leave, or tell you I’d gone back on our agreement?” he asked, a little testily. “You seem to have a habit of jumping to conclusions, dearie.”

“You didn’t seem happy to see me,” she said, a little sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I’m nervous about all of this, and…”

“And you’ve heard the stories,” Gold sighed, feeling a little ridiculous leaning in his doorway on his cane with a cherry pie in his free hand, calling to a girl half his age three steps beneath. “Big Bad Mr Gold, who drives kittens and starving orphans from their homes, and devours children on the weekends.”

“Your reputation isn’t exactly kind,” she admitted. “To be honest, I just don’t want to be a nuisance. I can get into the wedding either way, after all.”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, intrigued, “And how would you do that without an invite? The King family are paranoid people, you know, and they’ll pull out every security measure they have for their scion’s wedding.”

“I was torn,” she said, a hand on her hip, rising to his challenge, “between hiding in the cake, or breaking in in full black-out ninja gear. Either way, I’m changing in the bathroom.”

The twin images – of Belle French bursting from a giant cake like some demented stripper, or of her hiding in a hedgerow in a full-body black cat suit and skullcap, binoculars and radio in hand, scaling the walls of the King estate – were both hilarious and, he had to admit, somewhat intriguing. He actually caught himself smiling, laughing even, and at last that smile of hers was back, and she laughed too. It was like music when she laughed, he thought, and then wondered if he could concuss the thought out of his head if he just slammed it repeatedly against the doorjamb.

“Well, delightful as those plans are,” he drawled, “there’s an easier way. I suppose I can sacrifice one day for the sake of the town library…”

“Really?” she beamed, full-force, and he thought she could likely fell whole cities with that smile, and they’d be grateful to fall. “Thank you!”

She bounded up the steps and hugged him, her arms slung tight around his neck, and he just stood there awkwardly, trying to press a little back with the arm that held the pie, for both his hands were full. She was very soft, pressed against him like that, her petite frame delicate and oddly well fitted to his arms, and for a moment he really did enjoy hugging her back.

When Belle at last let go and settled back on her enormous high heels, she was flushed with embarrassment. She’d been overcome with exuberance, he thought: she probably beamed and hugged the postman if he brought her a nice letter. It would be better not to let anything she said or did go to his head or anywhere else, for that matter: that she was beautiful and kind, even affectionate, was all very well and good for the purpose at hand, but potentially disastrous if he dwelled on it for too long.

He stepped aside to allow her past, and she sauntered into his house with easy grace. She was looking around avidly, drinking in every detail, as he closed the door and ambled through to the kitchen to set her pie on the countertop.

After all, there could be no harm in simply hearing her out, right?


	2. Chapter 2

Belle's eyes swept over every inch of Gold's home she could see from her position by the kitchen counter; Gold almost felt as if she were assessing him instead, and fidgeted with his cane. She was smiling a little - a good sign, he hoped - and he wondered what she saw: the cavernous but intriguing old home of an equally empty old man, or a beautiful mansion made into a warm home?

“Could I tempt you to a slice?” Gold asked, gesturing to the pie.

“Only if you’re having one,” Belle replied, politely. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” he shook his head, “I… I was merely doing the accounts, nothing I can’t resume later. And,” he added, “it’s hardly going to look well on either of us at the wedding if it’s clear we’ve only just met.”

Belle nodded at that, seeing the wisdom of his words, “In that case, are you a tea or a coffee man?”

“Coffee is the drink of pretentious American executives and the overly self-important,” he sniffed, and then it occurred that she might well be a coffee-drinker herself, and hurriedly covered up his mistake, “That is to say, I’m old and coffee keeps me up all night, so I stick to tea.”

Belle giggled at his self-deprecation, and shook her head, “You needn’t worry, I can’t stand the stuff myself,” she confided. “My ex-boyfriend was convinced the world would end if he didn’t have his espresso just right in the morning, and half his money went on Starbucks breaks through the day.”

“A tea-drinker, then?” he assumed, “That’s rare, this side of the pond.”

“Even rarer in Australia,” she agreed, “Although not in Scotland?”

“In Scotland everything’s got whiskey in it, except the tea,” Gold agreed, “so tea it is unless you’ve a need to get your teeth knocked in and forget the last twelve hours. Not always an unattractive prospect in Glasgow, I’ll admit.”

“Well, at least that’s something we’ve got in common,” she said, with a bright laugh, “two ex-pats in a land without decent tea. Although I usually drink mine iced unless it’s really cold out, and the Americans do get that right.”

“Wuss,” he said, teasingly, and turned the kettle on as he dumped two teabags into his teapot. “Tea cools you in summer and warms you in winter.”

“Bet you take yours with milk as well,” she returned, “how’s that refreshing? It’s just hot milk with a bit of flavouring.”

“You’ve been in the States too long, Miss French,” he chided, “And milky tea goes best with something sweet… pie, for example.”

“You’re going to put milk in both, aren’t you?” she groaned, and he nodded, grinning with evil glee.

“Come now, Miss French,” he said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It’s Belle, actually,” she told him, firmly, as the kettle boiled and he set the tea brewing. “If we’re going to pretend to be an item we might as well be on first-name terms.”

It was a leading question, Gold could tell: he was of course now supposed to supply his forename, and put them on even footing. But no one had called Gold by his first name in such a very long time, he wasn’t even sure if he’d respond to ‘Cameron’ anymore.

“Indeed,” he agreed, mildly. “Belle it is, then.”

“Won’t people think it’s strange if we’re there together and I’m calling you Mr Gold?” she asked, curiously.

“No one will bat an eye, my dear,” he assured her. “I doubt there’s a man in town outside of my son and perhaps his family who know my forename.”

“Even the woman Bae mentioned?” Belle blinked, “Surely…”

“Even she,” he snapped back, “I assure you, you needn’t bother yourself with that.”

There was a pause, and Gold busied himself with pouring the milk and then the tea into two of his nicer mugs, and stirring both, and anything else that would prevent him from having to see Belle’s reaction to his outburst. Why it suddenly mattered at all what she thought of his ill temper was beyond him: twenty minutes ago he was growling to throw her from his doorstep.

“Why?” she asked, after a moment, cupping the mug in her hands and blowing the steam from the top.

“Why what, dear?” he asked, testily, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Why don’t you go by your first name?” she asked, curiously. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Mr Gold, it just all seems very Austen, you know?”

He eyed her, and reassessed once again his assumptions: she had a mind on her, this one. He suddenly pitied the poor city councilmen who would be faced with her lobbying for funds.

“I’m a difficult man to get along with,” he said, slowly, measuring his answer. “My social interactions outside of my immediate family consist of my business clientele and associates, and occasional run-ins with local government. In all of those situations Mr Gold, or simply ‘Gold’, is appropriate. My son calls me father, as you’d expect, I am grandpa to little Henry, and my daughter-in-law doesn’t address me as anything specific for various reasons.” He quirked his lips at that, remembering Emma’s moment of realisation that she would be daughter-in-law to her sometime-adversary, and that simply growling ‘Gold’ to get his attention would no longer be appropriate. He had been ‘hey’ or similar ever since.

“Well,” she said, having taken a deep breath and somehow straightened her spine, a bright, optimistic smile lighting her pretty face, “I am not a client, nor a member of the local government, nor one of your immediate family. So I believe we’re a little off your book here.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, unsure of what else to say to that, and so deciding a simple incline of his head was sufficient.

“But I don’t want to pry,” she continued, a little softer, as if having perceived his discomfort with her line of questioning, “you’re doing a nice thing for me here, and not asking much in return. So Mr Gold it is.”

He released a deep breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and nodded, smiling his relief. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “I assure you no one will think anything of it. If I embarrassed you in public my daughter-in-law would likely pull her gun on me anyway,” he added, trying to lighten the mood, “she is rather fond of doing that.”

Belle laughed, “I’m sure Emma would give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said, diplomatically, and then snorted at Gold’s sceptical expression. “But maybe it is a good thing she’ll be in formalwear and not carrying a weapon.”

“It is Emma Swan we’re talking about here,” Gold reminded her, “she’ll find a way to come prepared.”

“Well, then I suppose you’d better be nice to me, hadn’t you?” she teased, with another of those sparkling smiles, and Gold found himself nodding.

“I suppose so,” he agreed, quietly, a different response – that he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be anything less than nice to her, beautiful and charming as she was – only just caught on the tip of his tongue.

He had, after all, been fairly rude to her from the moment she had rung his doorbell: it was hardly surprising that she felt the need to ascertain his cooperation for herself. It would do neither of them any good, after all, to appear less than cordial to one another in front of the party, considering how she was supposed to be his date. And Belle had a lot more to lose here than he did: she had her livelihood; all he had was his pride on the line.

As to the other part, well, he couldn’t imagine that she would appreciate his compliments all things considered. Belle was a beautiful woman, yes, but she was at least two decades his junior, and a friend of his son’s. At best he would come off as a sweetly deluded old man, and at worst – and most likely, considering his reputation – she’d think him creepy and exploitative.

It would be better for all concerned if Gold acted as he would have were she a friend Bae had brought home from school one day, and asked to chaperone. That would be how best to proceed from now on, for apparently he was too perverse and desperate to be trusted with the word ‘date’: Gold would be her chaperone, and behave accordingly.

After all, this wedding and all of the unpleasantness implicit in it was the result of the last time he’d gotten involved with a younger woman, and he wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.

“Are we going to try the pie, then?” she asked, presently, and he snapped out of his thoughts to find her watching him with an amused expression on her berry-red lips. “The tea must have brewed by now.”

“Oh yes, of course,” he handed her the mugs, and pointed through to the patio outside. Maine wasn’t known for its beaming sunshine and hot summers, but today the June sun was warm and bright, and Gold thought he’d feel better out of doors than cooped up in his house. He brought two thick slices of her cherry pie out with him after taking a moment to breathe deeply, and clench the countertop with his hands, and found Belle had set herself up quite nicely at the wrought iron table, and was cradling the mug in both hands with a beatific expression on her face.

It hit him with the force of a tsunami, how wrong he had been about this. In his house, in the dark and surrounded by all the trappings of his misspent life, even Belle’s light had apparently been somewhat dimmed. But here, in the sunshine and the light, with her back to the roses the gardener kept in pristine bloom all summer long and the light hitting the curls of her chestnut hair, she was utterly radiant and irresistible.

It took all that Gold had in him to keep his hands steady as he placed her pie down before her, and took a seat opposite. “What do you think of the tea?” he asked, desperate for any banal topic of conversation. Her smile widened, and she took another sip, her eyes closing in bliss. Gold wanted the floor to swallow him whole in embarrassment: he was desperate to just lean over the table and kiss her, to see if she’d taste like the tea she apparently so enjoyed, and whether he could cause that same blissful smile for himself. The thought it was both inappropriate and utterly ridiculous: he’d known her all of ten minutes for goodness’ sakes, and she was half his age!

“It’s wonderful,” she said, warmly, “you were completely right, I bow to your superior knowledge.”

“Wisdom comes with age, dearie,” he said, bitterly, in an attempt to remind himself of the situation at hand.

“I suppose you’ve heard the ‘like a fine wine’ comment a few too many times?” she joked back, apparently trying to jolly him out of his sudden bad mood. What must she think of him, mood-swinging like a hormonal teenager between irritation, cordiality, and bewildered, gawping silence?

“It’s the cheese metaphor I loathe the most,” he confided, and she laughed again. She hadn’t denied his comment about his age, he reminded himself, savagely, she was being kind to an old man from whom she needed a favour, and because she was clearly a sweet girl. No good would come of enjoying her laughter, or working to engender more of it.

It had been two years since had Cora left him and broken his foolish old heart in the process. With her gone, he’d thought he’d shut that part of himself away somewhere deep inside himself, and left it behind in the dust. Since then he hadn’t looked at a woman with any interest, although a few women had certainly attempted to get into his good books once or twice to gain a favour or a little influence. He had thought himself, smugly if rather bitterly, utterly immune these days to any charm a young woman could throw at him. He’d at least assumed that he was mature enough not to shake like a schoolboy in the face of a pretty smile.

He was forty-nine years old, for God’s sake. He was more than capable of talking pleasantly with a woman without falling all over himself.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, “now it’s your turn: try some of the pie.”

“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “you’re trying some first. Just in case.”

“You think I slipped arsenic in it or something?” she gaped at him, “Bae really wasn’t kidding when he called you suspicious.”

“Just careful, my dear,” he corrected, “and if you’d ever displeased Cora Mills you would be too.”

“Wait…” Belle paused with the fork halfway to her mouth, “Cora Mills is the woman you…” she shook her head, cutting herself off mid-realisation. “I’m sorry; I know said I wouldn’t pry, but I suppose that does make sense.”

“Because her reputation is one of the few in town that rivals my own?” he asked, mildly. Belle finally ate her forkful of pie, and chewed and swallowed before replying.

“No, because she’s beautiful and clever, and I can see that she’d be the type to rub her wedding to another man in her ex’s face,” she smiled at him, full of generosity and understanding, and he blinked at her.

“You keep doing that, it’s disconcerting,” he blurted, and she frowned in confusion.

“Doing what?”

“Smiling,” he replied, shortly. “You keep smiling at me.”

“Well, I’m just glad to know that the advantage here is mutual,” she told him. “I didn’t like the idea of taking advantage of your spare time for my own gain, and Bae was very unspecific about what you’d get out of it. It’s nice to know we’re doing each other a favour.”

“Shall we drink to that, then?” he suggested, raising his mug, “To mutual advantage?”

She looked at him a little oddly for a moment, and then raised her own mug in return. “To mutual advantage,” she agreed, and their mugs clacked together before they both took a sip of their tea, and started in earnest on the pie.

It was delicious, of course: Gold was finding that there was little Belle didn’t apparently excel at, and as they began to talk more freely, he was unsurprised to find in her an intelligent, funny and engaging conversationalist. She never appeared to evade a question or attempt to hide any part of herself, and never came across as trying to be coy or mysterious either. He told her a little about himself: that he’d grown up poor in Glasgow, and decided to move to the States at the age of seventeen. It was then that he’d met Millie, and when she’d fallen pregnant they’d married soon after. He didn’t go into detail – not about his childhood in foster care after his mother’s tragic death, or his drug-dealing father’s attempts to contact him, or the details of his marriage and subsequent divorce – but tried to make sure there was nothing major that Cora knew that Belle didn’t.

She listened to it all with such sympathy, and when he explained how proud he’d been when Bae went to college – even despite his son having chosen the farthest school imaginable, and done so explicitly to get away from him – she reached out and placed her hand over his in mute solidarity. Bae’s adolescence had been rough, but despite his petty criminal record he’d still gotten into UCLA’s undergrad program at the age of twenty-three, and Gold had never been prouder, even though he knew his son’s troubles had been mostly his own fault. He’d gotten harder, meaner, when business had picked up and there had been more at stake and more to lose. He understood now that holding on so tightly had been what drove Bae away.

Gold didn’t know why he confided all of this to Belle, who was not only a stranger but also a friend of his son’s who surely shouldn’t know such personal things. But she only nodded, and said it all fit with the scant details Bae had provided, and that she understood completely. Belle told him that she had left Australia when her father’s alcoholism had become too much and he’d refused any help, and it was only in the last three years that she’d picked up contact again.

She was a librarian, and loved books more than anything in the world. She was a dog person, like him, and fonder of wine than beer or spirits, but tea most of all. She’d gone to college in Melbourne and majored in English Literature before emigrating, and done her Masters in archival studies at UMass. She’d been in the States a decade, and lived in Boston with the aforementioned ex-boyfriend before the relationship had gone sour – the bastard had cheated, a fact Gold could hardly believe – and she’d made the move to Storybrooke. That made her slightly older than Gold had thought, in her early thirties at his best guess, but there wasn’t much difference between seventeen years and twenty, so it gave him little hope.

After an hour of talking, Gold felt like he’d known her his whole life, and knew that if he were younger and more naïve he’d probably already fancy himself half in love with her. When she left she hugged him goodbye on his porch, and pressed a kiss to his cheek before trotting away in those ridiculous high-heels.

He was all but blushing at the feel of her lips on his skin, his mind running away with him, when he looked over the street and saw Cora’s younger sister Regina watching him with hard eyes. Apparently Belle was even smarter than he’d given her credit for: she was already busy putting on a show for Cora’s relatives.

Regina narrowed her eyes at him when he gave her a curt nod, and then, as Belle rounded the corner and vanished from view, slipped into her own car and drove away, leaving Gold to watch her leave from his doorway with anxiety already nagging in his belly.


	3. Chapter 3

The day of the wedding came, and Gold had made a terrible decision.

It had occurred to him, three days earlier, that he should have bought a corsage for his date, to prove they were an item. However, not knowing what colour Belle’s dress was, he had somewhat panicked.

Of course, Bae had emailed him her phone number. He could have simply called her - or even called by the library in person – to ask her himself. That would have been the rational course of action. But every time he picked up the phone, or walked past the library, or opened his laptop, he would remember her face when she sipped her milky tea, or the way her eyes shone in the sunlight, and something had stopped him. As if speaking to her before the wedding would jinx it somehow. She’d be compelled by the law of the universe to tell him that some broad-shouldered ex-boyfriend or hopeful suitor had stepped in for him, and that he was off the hook. 

Of course, that would mean being spared the torture of the wedding itself. Somehow missing the occasion was now unthinkable. Whether that was due to the chance to torture Cora Mills, or simply to spend a day in Belle’s company, he could not say.

He was pathetic, and old, and desperately needed to get a life of his own. It was now clear that he had been cooped up in his house and his shop for too long. It was truly pathetic that just the thought of a dance with a pretty girl was enough to quicken his heart rate. And so he had not spoken to her, nor approached her, since she had come to his door nearly a week ago. And so he had not a clue what colour corsage to buy her, and it suddenly seemed of paramount importance that he get this right.

That thought had been what lead him to the florist’s shop that afternoon. In a fit of sheer insanity, he had then attempted to buy a corsage in every shade he could think of, as he had no way of ascertaining the actual colour of her dress. The fruits of his labours were now all spread out before him on the table in the kitchen. He had one of everything, he thought gloomily, from deep purple violets to pink lilies and white orchids, and roses in every colour he could get his hands on.

He had bought so many, in fact, that the florist – taking pity on him, he thought, or perhaps simply trying to butter up the landlord – had offered a bouquet of red roses for his date as a thank you. So now not only would Belle know that he was apparently entirely inept at using the telephone to ask basic questions, she would also think he was attempting to court her. At best he would seem considerate, if deluded; at worst, it would appear he was stalking her.

It was, all in all, a complete disaster.

The doorbell rang while Gold was still surveying the mess on his dining table, and he heard Belle call out for him. “Mr Gold?”

He closed the door behind him hurriedly as he made for the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, taking a moment to take a deep breath and collect himself.

He opened the door, to find Belle waiting on the other side, and was momentarily struck dumb. Her dress was knee-length and rich, pale blue, the colour of the sky on a summer’s day, of forget-me-knots. The sleeves hung off her shoulders, and the bodice clung close to her chest and dipped to reveal just a little cleavage in the centre, before flaring at her hips and floating out around her thighs. It stopped just above her sweet little knees, her slender legs accentuated by sued burgundy spike heels. It was quite an outfit, but it was nothing compared to the beautiful, smiling woman inside it. Gold’s heart stammered in his chest at the thought that, even just for today, this enchanting creature had elected to accompany him.

She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t place, and her eyes ran over him for a moment, as if sizing him up. The suit was his best, black with a dark blue shirt and paisley grey silk tie. It was expensive and well-tailored, as flattering as it could be, but unfortunately little could be done for the man wearing it. To her credit, Belle was still smiling after her assessment. Either she didn’t mind, which was highly unlikely going by past experience with women, or she was as kind and good-natured as she had seemed.

Then again, Belle wasn’t much like any woman he’d ever had the fortune of dressing up for. For one thing, she didn’t have any of that ‘likes to torture animals for fun’ look about her. For another, she wasn’t any relation to the Mills clan, although the two traits did tend to go hand in hand. Perhaps she wasn’t all that unusual: he had to allow for skewed data, after all.

“Well,” she said, at last, “don’t you scrub up nice?” There now appeared a beautiful, rosy flush in her cheeks that he attributed to the warmth of the June sunshine. He hadn’t thought perfection could be improved upon, but she kept proving him wrong.

“I-“ he started, and then stopped any train of thought in its tracks, and slipped on a polite smile instead. “Thank you, Miss French. You look charming, of course.”

“Say that again,” she asked, biting her cherry-red lower lip and tugging a little nervously on the bottom of her dress. That flush intensified for no obvious reason, before her eyes swept back up to meet his. “It almost sounded like you meant it.”

She was good, he’d give her that: she could see right through his polite façade, as few people did. He forced himself to look at her properly, to see her bright blue eyes, perfectly matched by the silk of her dress, and the stream of dark curls tumbling down over one shoulder. To admit and admire how wondrous she appeared, like a piece of sunshine brought to his doorstep.

“You look beautiful, Belle,” he told her sincerely, meaning every word and hoping she wouldn’t mind, for she had asked after all. “No one will notice the bride.”

She blushed properly that time. Gold was then forced to allow himself the possibility that it was his complimenting her that was causing that reaction. What kind of oafish boys was she spending time with that a simple compliment from a jaded old man would engender such a reaction? Apparently his fears that some young beau of hers would steal her away had been in vain, if no one had told her how stunning she was in that long.

“Thank you, Mr Gold,” she said, warmly and softly. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I’d say it’s just the truth,” he shrugged, and couldn’t help matching her smile. “But I’m afraid we’ll fall into an infinite loop of compliments, and we need to be moving.” He stepped aside to allow her in, and then suddenly remembered the damned corsages. “I ah- I’ll be back in a moment.”

He left her standing in his hallway as he beat a hasty track to the kitchen, and surveyed his haul once again. The pinks and yellows were out, as they’d clash, as would the violets. One of the smaller ones, near the back, was a charming little clutch of white roses, with a small red one nestled just in the centre. It caught his eye, that flash of red, like her lipstick against her pale skin, her smile against his dark walls. He reached for it, his decision made despite the more obvious and ostentatious blue and cream choice before him.

It wasn’t a perfect match, but he had a hunch that she’d like it more than the showier one. He resolved to discreetly dump the rest of the corsages in the landfill the next day, and plucked his choice from the table.

The bouquet of complimentary roses rested on the end of the table, and for a moment he considered simply finding a vase for them and brightening the countertop for a while. But in the end, Gold decided he’d use them for their intended purpose. Belle seemed to find little to blush about in her normal life, after all, and her blushes were very pretty, if you liked that sort of thing. It made some odd primal part of him proud to cause them, as if it were some sort of statement that she was his. She was stuck with him for the day after all; she might as well get something out of it. He was just her chaperone, but it would harm no one to add a date-like flourish here or there, just for the fun of it.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned, as he reappeared and carefully closed the door behind him.

“No, I was just fetching your corsage,” he held the bunch of roses out to her and the corsage behind his back, and she giggled, blushing as brightly as he’d hoped, her eyes fixed on the flowers.

“That’s a little big for a corsage,” she said, gently. “I think you must have been swindled.”

“Oh, good thing I bought a back up then,” he winked at her, and enjoyed her laughter as he pulled the corsage from behind his back. “You might as well have both, then, since they’re both for you.”

She took the roses from him with the brightest smile he’d ever seen, and it was all the better for the surprise behind it. She hadn’t expected him to act like a gentleman, and he enjoyed subverting expectations. Usually that meant granting an extension when none was expected, and using the shock value to increase the interest, or something equally nefarious. Gold tried not to think too hard on how innocent his intentions were here, or he’d get a headache from the cognitive dissonance.

He’d turf an old lady out of her home first thing tomorrow, he decided, to redress the cosmic imbalance.

“Why thank you,” she said, her nose buried in the blooms as she held her hand out for him to tie on her corsage. “They’re… so beautiful, really, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he assured her, sincerely. There was a long moment, where he was still holding her hand and her gaze was fixed on his, puzzled and happy and a little out of her depth, where he was certain he couldn’t breathe if he tried.

She really had been neglected, he thought sadly, if his meaningless little gestures were enough to do this to the poor girl. Maybe she’d meet a nice young man at this party, and find the happiness she deserved. It would only be fair, after being so generous and kind to a gnarled old beast like him. He’d make sure and find her the most handsome available young man there, and then make it clear that there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t live up to everything she deserved. The fact that the thought of her dancing and smiling with another man twisted his guts into knots was neither here nor there.

He wrapped her hand safely in the crook of his arm, and smiled that polite smile again, hoping to shatter whatever strange tension his mind had created and get back to reality. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said, gathering herself as well, it seemed, “we shall.”

He led her out to the Cadillac, her warm little hand held snug in his elbow, and held the door open for her to get in the passenger side. “How did you even find a car like this?” she asked, curiously, as he slid into the driver’s side and locked the doors.

“Excuse me?” she was still clutching the roses to her chest, inhaling their scent through her sweet little nose. It was rather distracting.

“I mean, it’s a really gorgeous car, Mr Gold,” she explained, hastily. “But it’s so unique, vintage… to be honest, it kind of looks like a mobster ride from the 1920s. I almost feel like there should be bullet holes and moonshine in the backseat!”

He lifted an eyebrow at her as he started the ignition, “Who says there aren’t bullet holes and moonshine in the backseat?“ He winked at her, and glanced at the back furtively."Have you checked?”

She laughed at that, and slapped her forehead “That’s how I should be funding the library!” she chided herself. “How silly of me! I should be peddling illegal booze in a speakeasy in the basement. Then people would be flooding in!”

“I’m sure I could loan you Mr Dove to back you up,” Gold said, slyly. “I’m certain it’s always been his dream to be a speakeasy enforcer. He already more than looks the part.”

Belle snickered, and shook her head, “The City Council are scarier than any 1920s mob,” she told him. “I think they’d shut me down.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Gold allowed himself another open glance at her, at the glorious picture she made in his passenger seat. “Wear that dress and smile and I doubt they could deny you anything, my dear.”

She blushed again at that. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said, “you’ll be making comments about my dress all day now just to tease me.”

He frowned, and glanced at her, mystified, as they turned onto Orchard. “I’m only pointing out that with your eyes and especially in that dress there’re few men who’d want to let you down. Isn’t that the point of this endeavour?”

“The point is to corner them and look pitiful so they feel bad about denying children the chance to learn to read.” Belle shook her head in astonishment, “The illiteracy rate in this town is staggering!”

“And, if that should fail, the library has an excellent basement to run illegal operations out of. You’d be the sweetest-natured mobster in history.”

“With Dove ready to murder anyone who got in my way?” she guessed, and he nodded.

“If he’s not available, I’m rather handy with my cane,” Gold assured her. Then he wanted to kick himself for bringing up his handicap: he was hardly a dream date as it was, however inexplicably happy she appeared to be with this arrangement, and it was foolishness itself to further highlight his flaws. “I’m sure I could keep the rabble in line, if the muscle was otherwise engaged.”

“What chivalry,” she teased, a hand pressed to her heart in a mockery of rapture. “You’d beat a man to a pulp with your cane for me, how romantic!”

He swallowed hard at the word ‘romantic’, but didn’t contradict her. He had no doubt that he would beat anyone senseless who caused her pain, and the thought was not a pleasant one. He barely knew the woman, but she didn’t seem the type to endorse that kind of behaviour in reality, no matter his history. He wondered that he didn’t find her cheerfulness and utter lack of fear of him more annoying; he was sure he would on anyone else. 

It was probably just the influence of nearly five years of utter celibacy, not to mention a rather large helping of loneliness, he thought, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. That combination would make any pretty female company seem so mesmerising. He was pathetic.

“I do hope my son didn’t market me as some sort of white knight,” Gold grumbled. “That I’ve not taken you hostage and locked you in a tower somewhere already will be a surprise to most, no doubt. This town does love to tremble at its monsters. A few probably still believe I breathe real fire.”

“Is that what the flowers are in aid of?” she asked, curiously, inhaling once again from the bouquet with a dreamy smile. “To make up for that image, make everything more convincing for your ex?”

His face creased in a frown, and he shook his head. “Were that my motivation, dearie, the corsage would have more than sufficed. You can hardly carry those inside anyhow: only the bride is supposed to carry flowers, I’m told, and Cora wouldn’t take kindly to having her spotlight nicked by someone younger and prettier than her. She’d probably put a hex on you or something.”

Then he kicked himself again, harder and higher up than before, for not taking the out she’d offered. Now she’d think he was some sort of creepy old letch, trying to woo to a woman more than half his age. 

“Oh…” Belle nibbled on the corner of her lip, and Gold tried not to watch and to keep his eyes forward. “Then… why?”

There was an odd sort of sadness in her voice, soft and yearning, and for a moment all of Gold’s own insecurities seemed unimportant. The truth – that they were free, pretty, and he felt like it – hung on Gold’s lips, but he didn’t say it. He had a feeling that the flowers – that someone giving her flowers – meant quite a bit to her, and Gold was not a kind man but he didn’t want to take that away from her. He had chosen to give them to her, after all, and the price of all those discarded corsages more than made up for the cost of the roses. He’d bought a woman flowers, and for just a moment he managed to swallow his fear and admit to it.

“I thought you’d like them,” he said, quietly. “I know this isn’t… perhaps what most pretty young women would have in mind for a date to a wedding. I thought it’d be… nice, to buy you flowers. I thought they’d make you happy,” he finished, lamely. “Do you like them? If you don’t I’m sure I can find a vase for them in my home, they needn’t trouble you.”

“Of course I do!” she clutched the bouquet protectively to her breast. “Don’t you dare! I just… I don’t know, from what Bae said I… you’re not what I expected,” she said, finally. “I didn’t expect roses. Thank you.”

He sighed, and nodded, somewhat mollified, “What did you expect, then?” he asked, presently, as they were nearing the imposing white gates of the King estate, “A dragon with snapping jaws? A scaled goblin with mossy teeth, mocking your clothing choices and growling at your smiles?”

She laughed at that, and shook her head, chestnut curls bouncing and swaying in the summer sunlight. “Something like that,” she said, evasively, and Gold was tempted to press for more, despite – or more likely due to – the sense that he’d not like the picture painted of him. He and his son had buried most of their issues long ago, and their relationship now was better than it’d been since Bae was a child, but Gold had no illusions that his son had forgotten his crueller aspects. A boy didn’t end up sleeping in stolen cars and jail cells because of good, kind parenting, after all.

He’d made up for much of it by welcoming his son home the moment he’d returned, and never once mentioning how scared he’d been the whole time Bae had been away. He’d paid for Bae to attend college a few years later than planned, and paid for his wedding. He made the effort ever since to be the best grandfather possible to young Henry. He and Bae were friends now, happy. But for all his willing forgiveness Bae was never the type to forget: he’d inherited that sterling trait from his father.

What if he’d told her more of his youth than she’d let on? What if she’d imagined some abusive bastard, ready with a harsh backhand and a nasty curse? The thought of Belle looking at him and expecting his own father, even for a moment, was horrifying. He’d hurt Bae in the past, it was true, but he’d never been Malcolm, never been honestly cruel or violent.

But surely if she had expected that, she’d not have stood on his doorstep with cherry pie. Bae had been convincing her to take the deal, after all, it would hardly have served his cause to spin wild tales of his vices as a parent.

“What did he say of me, dearie?” he asked, after a long, uncomfortable moment, and Belle shook her head.

“I’ve not been in town long,” she said, haltingly, “But… you’re a hard man to miss, Mr Gold. Bae’s account wasn’t the first I’d heard of you.”

“So you did expect a dragon,” he said, with a kind of cruel satisfaction. “My son only confirmed what you already knew. How brave you were for approaching me anyway.”

“No!” she cried, at once. “No, I… I’d heard the stories, about sudden rent spikes and evictions, yes, and that you weren’t pleasant company. Everyone told me not to come to you for the library money because you’d take my soul in exchange. But that wasn’t why I didn’t come to you. Honestly, I just didn’t want to be personally indebted for a public project. I minored in public policy in college, and I know how bad that can get: it’s the city’s duty to pay for the library, not mine. But I did wonder why a man who has everything would be so apparently cruel to his dependents. Bae… Bae just confirmed my suspicions.”

“Oh?” Gold asked, tightly, his jaw clenched and his eyes on the road, masochistically clinging to her every horrid word. He’d been a fool to think she could ever actually like him, even as a casual acquaintance. She was using him, just as he’d told her to, just as he was using her. “And what were they?”

“That you were lonely,” she told him, softly and honestly, and he had to at least grant her that: she didn’t lie to him, or placate him, or stammer at her admission. It had been a long time since someone other than Bae or Emma was honest with him, and he had to appreciate that, for all it stung. “And angry at the whole town, and to be honest, who wouldn’t be? They’re not exactly the wholesome, welcoming community they make themselves out to be. If you’ve lived here as long as they say… I’m surprised there’s not a murder or two to your name, to be honest.”

Gold’s misery turned to disbelief with every word she said, and when she finished her voice had grown louder, faster and stronger, like a dam had burst within her and she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright when he glanced at her, and she had slumped back in her seat, as if suddenly exhausted.

“Something you want to share with the class, dear?” he asked, with some astonished amusement, as he turned onto Maple, and began to climb the hill to the Estate.

She shot him a withering look, “Come on, you know better than anyone. Between that judgemental old biddy who runs the diner – ‘oh, honey, you sure you don’t want some tights with that little skirt? Men aren’t all gentlemen, you know!‘” Gold snickered at her somewhat cruel but completely accurate impression of Anne Lucas, and she smiled briefly before continuing. “And those awful nuns who sneer like the popular clique in high school when they pass by…. okay, I’m sorry if Lolita isn’t the Church’s favourite novel, but that doesn’t make it illegal to read in public! Oh, and don’t even start me on that councilwoman, Regina Mills. The inferiority complex on that one could fell a small tree.”

“You haven’t met her bastard half-sister,” Gold muttered. He remembered with a shudder the unhinged young woman who’d torn into town a few years after Cora had left him, and decided to stalk her sister’s former paramour. Belle gaped at him in horror.

“There’s a third Mills sister?” she demanded, and Gold nodded gravely. “Is this town cursed or something? Did someone turn around three times at the crossroads and spit?”

“Believe it or not, Regina’s the sane one of the three. She’s just mean and a little delusional – Cora’s an outright sociopath, and Zelena is out of her goddamn mind.”

“Zelena?” Belle choked a laugh. “That’s her name? Who chose that?”

“Her adoptive parents, presumably,” Gold shrugged. “Apparently the Mills patriarch wasn’t the most faithful of men. She’s the middle child, came to town about two or three years ago and… the results weren’t pretty.”

Belle winced, “What happened?”

“She stalked me for a few weeks.” He shrugged it off, trying not to recall too strongly the weeks of odd letters and breathing, silent phone calls.

“Oh god,” Belle looked at him in sympathy, “That must have been awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, unable to express the worst night of his life. “She became rather dangerous, in fact. She even tried to kill me. But it was Bae who ended up in the hospital.”

That had been the worst of it: the night when he’d awoken to find all his doors locked and the lights on. The woman herself was waiting in his hallway with a knife in her hand, ordering him to kiss her or feel the blade in his gut. 

“I’m so sorry,” Belle breathed, and put her hand on his shoulder, her warmth of her kindness radiating through him. “What happened ?”

“She broke into my home,“ he said, succinctly, "And when my son and his wife came to my aid… she stabbed him through the stomach. Aiming for me, of course, but all the same.”

He’d called his son the moment he realised someone in the house, hoping he’d be bright and let his sheriff wife handle things. Bae, of course, ever brave and devoted, had decided come along to provide back-up. They’d arrived in time to stop Zelena, only for Bae to feel her knife through his stomach. He’d gone down with a sickening thud, and Gold could still hear Emma’s howl of rage echoing through his mind, as she’d full-body tackled the bitch to the ground. Zelena had been lucky Emma was there, in the end. If Gold had been alone, he’d have stabbed her to death himself for what she’d done to Bae. 

“Oh my god,” Belle’s hand flew to her mouth in shock, her eyes wide. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry!” 

“It all worked out alright,“ Gold assured her, "Bae made a full recovery and I… well, she sustained some injuries too, that night.” Gold’s lips drew into a grim, satisfied smile at the memory of his cane crushing her windpipe, once Bae was being treated. It had felt good to gain a little physical vengeance, however wrong it had felt to hurt a woman.

He hadn’t cared, in that moment: for all he’d known, his son could have been dead by morning. Emma had let him let out his rage, in that moment, before doing her civic duty and pulling him away. 

Zelena had been incompetent, at least, and missed his vitals. Gold had also had enough presence of mind to frantically hold Bae’s scarf against the wound, to prevent him bleeding out before the ambulance came. The memory of watching his son bleed on the floor while they waited for the paramedics; Emma holding Zelena down by her throat; Zelena cackling in insane glee at what she’d done… it all still played endlessly in his nightmares.

"She recovered from her own wounds in handcuffs,” he continued, at last. “And successfully pled insanity. Zelena will spend the remainder of her days locked away in a facility for the criminally insane. Thankfully, she will therefore not be in attendance today.”

“Good,” Belle said, with some force, “I think I could quite happily not meet her, thank you.”

“When you have someone who makes Cora and Regina Mills look sane and kind of heart, then you know you have a real piece of work on your hands.”

“I’m surprised Bae’s coming to the wedding at all,” Belle mused. “It being a celebration of the sister of the woman who did that to him.”

“Emma has to be here, and my boy…” he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unable to mask the pride in his voice when he said, at last. “My boy is brave, and loyal to those he loves. Emma could handle herself just fine, but he won’t leave her alone with the Mills clan, especially not with Henry in tow.”

“That’s sweet,” Belle said, with a smile that expressed far more than her words did. They pulled up beside the valet station, and Gold opened his door as Belle did the same. “He loves you too, you know,” she said, as they clambered out of the car. Her face was lost in the movement, and he couldn’t find her eyes. A mercy, perhaps. “Whatever might have happened, he loves you too.”

“I know,” he said, as he drew up next to her, “Don’t you worry, I know.” He flashed her a brief, genuine smile, and placed her hand firmly on his elbow. “Ready?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Ready,” she agreed. Then, right as they entered the doors and were greeted by the hostess’ sister herself, Belle knocked all the wind out of him by leaning up on her tiptoes, and pressing her soft red lips to his cheek.

Gold’s heart almost stopped in his chest, but Belle just smiled against his skin, and her lips were so soft and warm he could hardly breathe. "Be brave, we can do this,” she whispered against his ear, and he nodded, utterly struck dumb by her.

How could he be anything but brave, he thought, with Belle beside him?


End file.
